


Meant to be Pushed and Pulled

by riwriting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Pining, They Are Idiots, debates about literature, love confessions hiding as literature discussions, pining confessions hiding as literature discussions, romance novels, romeo and juliet - Freeform, the actual play not the trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 09:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19765033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riwriting/pseuds/riwriting
Summary: A customer tries to purchase a romance novel Aziraphale knows he did not stock and confronts the source of the new merchandise.  Crowley doesn't see why all of this is such a big deal as Aziraphale already sells other books with similar themes.





	Meant to be Pushed and Pulled

**Author's Note:**

> Uses the TV timeline, with a couple Book facts and one subtle nod to Discworld tossed in. Also, I proudly have shelves (plural) of romance novels, love them dearly, and have read every last one of them. I'm using them as a plot device and mean no offense to them.

**Summer 2003**

The whole thing started just about as bad as anything Aziraphale could imagine. There was a customer, and the customer thought he actually wanted to sell books. The customer actually held out a book and uttered the dreaded phrase, “Can I buy this?”

The situation, however, had not yet reached the peak of terrible. That occurred a moment later when Aziraphale looked down at the book. The cover was mostly overtaken with picture of a woman in a fancy dress that had not been in style for the better part of a century swooning in the arms of a man wearing an unbuttoned shirt as his hair blew in a breeze. Large, swirly letters proclaimed it to be _Daring The Duke_.

This was absolutely mortifying. While Crowley liked to give him grief that there wasn't a book Aziraphale would not collect, that was not accurate. Aziraphale had many books in his book store. What he did not have were the types of books colloquially described as “bodice rippers.” He had  _standards_ .

“Ah,” Aziraphale took the book from the customer, turning it over as if looking for a price. His mind flipped over the possibilities. Was she confused? Did someone accidentally leave this in his shop? Was this someone's idea of a practical joke? As nicely as possible, he asked, “Where did you find this?”

She motioned towards a corner of the shop with an “over there” before fumbling with her purse. “I didn't see a price...”

“No,” Aziraphale conceded. “It does not appear to be marked.” He didn't even know what these sorts of books sold for. His books were not normally described as 'leisure reading,' and they were not easy to find in the general marketplace. They were rare and old and really only interesting to collectors of rare and old things. He could charge a premium if he actually had to sell one. He wasn't sure where to start with this particular book. “This book? It was just...lying around?” Maybe a customer had brought it with them, taken a seat in one of the little nooks or crannies to read, and then left it behind.

“I found it on the romance shelf.” The woman produced her wallet and shuffled through the bills. She held one out. “Would five pounds do it?”

“Uh, yes. Of course.” Aziraphale tried not to appear as flustered as he felt. He was quite sure he was failing in that regard as he took the offered funds. “There's more books like this?”

The customer looked at him as if he were a bit odd as she informed him, “You've got a whole shelf of them.”

A whole shelf. There had been rumors that Aziraphale had heard, here or there, about how strange things could happen when you got a lot of books in one place. Time and space could supposedly warp a bit. He hadn't, however, heard those phenomena including situations where entire shelves of second hand romance novels suddenly appeared out of thin air.

After sending the customer on her way with the book, he set about investigating the area in the shop where she claimed to have found it. It did not take long to discover that there was, indeed, a small collection of books with titles ranging from  _Catching A Count_ to  _ The _ _Pirate Prince_ to  _Inferno Hearts_ . The covers were all variations on the theme of swooning women in long skirts and swashbuckling bare chested men. They were, Aziraphale was  _quite_ sure, books he had never purchased for his shop.

How long had they been there? Now that he was thinking about it, he hadn't really wandered into this section for several weeks. That said, he was distinctly sure that they were not here six weeks ago because Crowley had....

Crowley.

_Two_ weeks prior, the demon had been hanging about in the book store – Aziraphale had never quite figured out why other than Crowley had seemed bored and it was something to do. He'd spent the afternoon making a general nuisance of himself, walking around and taking books off shelves while providing a running commentary of the whole thing until a customer's arrival made him disappear somewhere among the stacks. At the time, Aziraphale had believed Crowley's sudden silence was for purposes of self preservation – after all, who would want to willingly talk to a customer? In retrospect, he realized he should have known better. Demons were like small children and cats. When you couldn't hear them, they were most definitely Up To No Good.

_This_ had Crowley written all over it. Aziraphale wondered what sort of Bad Deeds Crowley was up to with lustful romance novels. Well, right there in the description, that had to be it - inspiring lust in readers sounded properly sinful. Lust was one of the Seven Big Ones. Aziraphale shook his head, as if this would make Crowley somehow sense his disappointment across London. While this sort of thing was, of course, Crowley's job, he shouldn't have used the book store! People now thought  _Aziraphale_ believed these books to be worthy of his store. How humiliating!

The bell above the door rang, and Aziraphale barely managed to think _oh dear not another one_ when a familiar voice rang out, “Oi! Angel!” Speak of the devil...demon...close enough.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale scrambled to pull one of the books from the shelf and started towards the front of the store.

“I was in the area,” Crowley was saying as Aziraphale emerged from the stacks, “And I thought....what in heaven happened?”

Aziraphale realized his face had given away that he was Not Pleased at the moment. Well. Crowley caused this. He shouldn't be surprised Aziraphale was upset.

“Did someone buy something they shouldn't?” Crowley turned to look in the direction of the door as if the problematic customer would pop up suddenly.

“No. Well, I made a sale, but that wasn't the problem and -” now he was off topic. “Crowley!” Holding the book he'd grabbed off the shelf – _Catching A Count –_ aloft, Aziraphale asked, “Do you happen to know anything about this?”

Crowley tossed his head slightly so his hair flopped in that very _Crowley_ way while his glasses slid down his nose. His eyes scanned the title, and then he grinned. “Ah. You found them.”

Aziraphale lowered the book. “So this _was_ your demonic doing!”

There was a long pause, as if Crowley was trying to think. Finally, he said, “You're upset about the book.” To Aziraphale's surprise, he sounded legitimately confused.

“Of course I'm upset, Crowley.” Aziraphale dropped the book on the nearest table. “This isn't something like exchanging a miracle for a temptation. This is my book shop.”

“Did someone buy one?” Crowley asked. “Is that why? You wanted to keep those? They're half a pound each at rummage sales, Angel.” He turned and gestured towards the door. “I'll go get you another one.”

“I don't want another one. I don't want them in my shop.” How could Crowley not see the problem? It was obvious. “People will think I sell this sort of...this sort of filth.”

Crowley somehow managed to look even more genuinely confused. “But you already do.”

The nerve! “I most certainly do not!”

“Oh, come _on_.” The demon gestured in the direction of the back room. “You have one of the original rehearsal scripts of _Romeo and Juliet_ in a glass case in your office. It's signed. It's one of your prized possessions.”

“That is _not_ the same,” Azriaphale corrected him.

“It isn't? Did we not see the same play? I know you were there. You made me go, remember?” Crowley launched into what Aziraphale could only assume was meant to be an imitation of him. “'Oh, Crowley,'” he made a fidgeting motion that Aziraphale was quite certain he had never made in his entire existence, “'That dear William has invited us to his new play. We simply must go. We'd be terrible friends if we didn't.'” He dropped the imitation and continued without taking a breath, “The whole theater _scene_ was bawdy and common and what was that word you used? Filth. That's what it was in those days. Certainly not the place for high brow respectable book sellers.” With a dramatic flop that only Crowley could do, he fell back on a chair, limbs askew, and added, “Only reason I agreed to go, really. Looks good on my memos to head office – encouraging filth.”

Okay, _yes_ the theater was not exactly _cultured_ in those days. But.... “ _Romeo and Juliet_ is a love story.”

Crowley's nose scrunched up. “No it's not.”

“It is,” Aziraphale insisted, “A tale of tragic star-crossed love.”

“Oh, please.” Crowley threw his head back as if Aziraphale had said something absurd. “It's a _lust_ story. He was lusting after a different woman all of two acts earlier and then, suddenly, it's all Juliet-this and Juliet-that. They hardly even knew each other. That is _not_ love, Angel, and you know it.”

There was something fundamentally absurd about a demon lecturing him on love. Since Crowley was intent on digging this hole, however, Aziraphale was happy to lend him the shovel. “Alright, then.” He leaned against the table. “Explain what love would be.” He spread his hands in front of him. “How would Romeo and Juliet fall in love.”

“Well, first,” Crowley sat up, his feet coming down on the floor, “They would need to know each other more than a handful of hours. You can meet a person, and realize that they're Different-”

“Different,” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes. With a capital-D. Different is important. You know – as in they're not like all those other ones.” Crowley motioned as if pushing people away. “They're Special. But you don't know _why_ yet. The why is important for the love, but the why comes later. You want to know, though. You want to know why. So you spend time with them. You seek them out. You get to know them, right? Not just know the superficial things, like 'oh, I find this human very attractive and want to go off into a dark corner and do lustful human things with them.' The real things. Who they are and who they are when other people aren't around. All the good bits but all the bad bits, too. The really awful bits. But you accept those. You know those bits but you still want the person around anyway – you still _like_ them anyway. And you find yourself cataloging the little things, y'know? The things that make them smile. The way their eyes light up when they see something they enjoy. The way just being in the same room with them makes you feel _alive_ and _real_ and when they smile _at_ you and it feels like it's _for_ you. It's just...better when they're around. And, y'know, you start to think 'well, this cannot possibly be a thing and it must be imagined' but it's not. Because you can imagine a lot of things into existence, but you can't imagine love into existence. It has to be real. And then it gets even more – more – _more_ , and you find that, given the choice, between something you want and something that would make them happy, well, there's really no question there, is there? It's the second one. And love can take – it takes _years_ and _years_ and chance encounters and long conversations and sometimes just long silences that are so companionable that they're as good as a good conversation. And you see them and accept them and love them, and you feel seen and accepted and loved right back.” It was quick enough that Azirpahale almost missed it, but Crowley hesitated before adding, “That's what I'd want to see from Romeo and Juliet – something that suggests _that_ could happen – before I'd call it a love story.”

It was long and rambling and more impassioned than Crowley usually got (at least while sober). Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where it all came from. It was clear, however, that every word was meant sincerely, and that Crowley had given the concept of love a good deal of thought. It wasn't the sort of thought that someone had when they thought about love in the abstract. It felt _lived._ Aziraphale felt a little put out at that. He talked with Crowley about just about anything, and thought that was reciprocal. Crowley, however, had never mentioned anything like _that._ It wasn't that he couldn't imagine Crowley feeling love - angels and demons were from the same original stock and angels understood love – and, if he was being honest, he supposed there could have been someone along the way. Probably not another demon – from what he could tell, demons in general had trouble with making even simple alliances (Crowley being a notable exception) so substantial relationships were likely out – but maybe a human. Humans lived such short times.... You didn't get to choose who you fell in love with, though. That likely applied to demons as much as anyone else. And yet the idea of Crowley...it _really_ was not his place to go there. Crowley was permitted – well, Aziraphale assumed he was permitted; he didn't exactly memorize the rule book for hell – to have whatever feelings he wanted and share them or not share them with whoever he wanted. Unless Crowley chose to tell Aziraphale more, then it was not Aziraphale's business.

At all.

And he needed to let that go.

And now the silence was hanging thick in the room. Aziraphale knew whatever he said next could blow up. He had to keep the conversation on safe territory. “Those are,” he finally said, “Fair points. I will concede that _Romeo and Juliet_ may not be a love story.”

Crowley scowled. “Thanks.” He didn't sound particularly thankful.

“No, that was a very good argument,” Aziraphale said. “I was just thinking through what you said. Love isn't a lightening bolt. It's cultivated over time, like plants.”

Crowley stiffened even more. “ _Not_ like plants.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale filed that little bit of information away. “Cultivated like something else, then. The point is, though, that your....” He could see Crowley watching him with a challenging expression, as if he was just waiting for Aziraphale to bring on some Holy Judgment. He wasn't sure what part of agreeing with Crowley was worthy of anger. It was all very odd. “Your literary analysis is sound. That said, I'm still not sure why you thought to bring, uh, these novels to my shop.”

Crowley took the offered out faster than he took a turn in downtown London in that car of his. “You sell books, Angel.”

“Not if I can help it,” Aziraphale put in.

“Right, but – what if you had some cheap, not-rare, not particularly-interesting-to-you second hand books. Books that it wouldn't kill you to get rid of. That you didn't even _like._ ” Crowley leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Then you could actually sell books, but it wouldn't be a problem. They wouldn't be _your_ books, but just....books. That you didn't particularly want anyway.”

Aziraphale took a moment to consider that. He wondered if this was some excuse that Crowley made up after the fact, or if it was something Crowley actually came up with and thought was a good idea. With Crowley, either was possible. “And you selected these because...?”

Crowley shrugged. “Why does anyone sell anything? That's what other used book stores sell. People seem to like them. You can get them cheap and turn a profit.” He shrugged again. “Look, if they bother you that much, I can take them back to my flat and sell them on the Internet.”

“The Internet,” Aziraphale repeated, not really listening and still trying to figure out how Crowley's mind worked.

“Yeah. You can sell anything on the Internet. Online auctions are one of my better ideas.” He reached for where _Catching A Count_ was still sitting on the table beside Aziraphale.

Aziraphale put a hand on the book to keep it from moving. “But _why_?” The actual question – why did you do this in the first place? What were you thinking? What set of information made you think this made sense? - didn't make it all the way to verbalization.

Crowley understood anyway. “Just thought it would, y'know, make things less painful if you could sell some books you didn't want to horde and that having actual sales would make things easier with the government. You get real offended when they audit your taxes.”

“That's because my taxes are perfect!” He made sure of it. He'd even learned how to use the computer to ensure everything was in order. Aziraphale kept his books in the tippest, toppest shape. That the government didn't trust him was insulting.

“Right. And you don't _sell_ anything, Angel.” Crowley banged his head against the back of the chair once, then twice, and then a third time for good measure. He leaned forward again. “You realize they think you're a front for the mafia, right?”

Aziraphale gaped at him.

“They _do_. That's why you keep getting investigated. If you actually _sold_ books they'd leave you alone and... You know, forget it.” Crowley pushed himself from the chair. “It was a stupid idea. I'll get the books.”

Crowley made it all of three steps before Aziraphale stopped him. “No, Crowley, wait.” His hand snagged the demon's arm. “The...the books can stay.”

“You don't like them.” It sounded like the demon was pouting.

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale dropped his hand. “But – that was the point, wasn't it?” At least he could see Crowley's logic. He didn't necessarily agree with it, but he could see it.

“You said they were filth.” Despite the words, Crowley both looked and sounded remorseful. It was a rare moment. A remorseful Crowley was vulnerable, and Crowley did not enjoy anything that had to do with vulnerability. He really must, Aziraphale realized, feel bad about this whole thing.

He couldn't stay mad at the demon. One of the things Aziraphale had come to accept was that if you were going to be friends with demons – or at least allow them to come around – you had to expect that they were going to approach the world as demons. Crowley had meant well. He just...took a demon approach to it all. “Yes, well,” Aziraphale caught himself fidgeting very much in the way Crowley had imitated earlier and mentally told his hands to shush. “As you've pointed out, I already sell other books with similar themes. And I _did_ sell one of your books, and it did not hurt to see it go.”

Crowley shifted to face him fully. There was something slow and measuring in his expression, though much of it was hidden behind those annoying glasses.

“If you want, you may bring me other books that I would not find interesting,” Aziraphale continued, trying to sound rational. Rational was good. They were both six thousand years old and could be...rational. “At least temporarily to...to test this theory. We'll have a whole shelf of Books I Do Not Want that can be sold.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Just no more books with covers showing half-dressed humans.”

The start of a wicked little smile appeared. “They get fully undressed in the books, you know.”

“I'm sure they do, but we don't need to _advertise_ that.” When Crowley nodded in his direction, he took that as an agreement. “We can try it for, say, six months? If it turns out that it is not a good idea, you can sell the remaining, er, inventory on your Internet...thing.”

“Auction,” Crowley offered.

“Yes. That.” Aziraphale paused. “How is that demonic?”

“People don't like it when someone comes in and takes the thing they were bidding on in the last second. Get really angry and frustrated and have to take it out on someone else. And it can happen anywhere in the world, as long as you have the Internet.” Crowley looked pleased with himself. Apparently, all of _that_ made sense to him. Aziraphale still hadn't quite gotten the point of the Internet. It seemed rather complicated. Crowley, however, loved it, so he knew it must be very demonic. As if reading his thoughts, Crowley added, “The Internet makes demonic activity so much easier. I need to tell you about message boards some time.”

“They do sound very demonic,” Aziraphale tried to be supportive.

Crowley nodded. After a long moment, he asked, “We're good?”

“Yes.”

“I'll ask you...next time.” Crowley said, the words spilling out quickly, “If it involves your shop.”

“Thank you. That would be appreciated.” A new thought occurred. “Why _did_ you stop by? It certainly couldn't have been because you knew I was upset about the books.”

“Oh.” Crowley seemed to have suddenly remembered his purpose as well. “Right.” He gestured towards the door over one shoulder. “New little bistro opened. I was walking by. Looked like an Aziraphale place. Thought you might want to grab lunch.”

“Ah.” Lunch did sound good. And there weren't any customers in the shop. It wouldn't take much to just flip the sign around and step out for a bit.

Crowley mistook the pause as hesitancy and added, “My treat.”

“Lunch sounds heavenly.” Aziraphale smiled. “I'll get my coat.”

~*~

**Summer 2019**

When Crowley had first seen the picnic basket sitting near the door of the bookshop, he'd scowled, pointed at it, and asked, “What the heaven's this?” He then immediately proceeded to open it and poke around, only relaxing when he was sure it held nothing more than light refreshments, a nice bottle of wine, and a book. Aziraphale had been concerned that, perhaps, the idea of finally going on their picnic had been a bad one, but that seemed to be the end of Crowley's concerns. He'd participated in their charming conversations while they walked to the park, inhaled lunch quite enthusiastically, and was now sprawled on the blanket as if he did not have a care in the world.

The reaction was still a bit disconcerting, though. Aziraphale had not quite been able to put it from his mind, and now that things were quiet, he'd found himself rereading the same line of his book over and over without really seeing the words. This was ridiculous. He could just  _ ask _ . He snapped the book shut. “Crowley?”

“Hmm?” Crowley's head turned so that he could gaze sleepily at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses.

“Was this afternoon...” Aziraphale searched for the right word. He couldn't find one and settled on, “Alright?”

“Mmm.” Crowley shut his eyes and returned to what Aziraphale could only describe as 'sunning.' “S'nice, Angel. Better than nice, really. Got to practice gluttony,” a hand flailed to indicate the direction of the picnic basket, “Now I'm practicing sloth. Very demonic things, picnics.”

“So vices are part of this 'our side' then?” It was meant to be a joke.

Crowley seemed to consider it seriously before declaring, “Vices are optional.” His eyes opened again. “That okay?”

“Yes. I don't mind.” Aziraphale tried to open his book again, but it was pointless as he hadn't actually gotten a question to the issue that was bothering him. “Are you sure you're alright?”

This time, Crowley propped himself up on one elbow. “Yeah?”

“It's just,” Aziraphale tried to explain, “This morning, in the shop...you seemed upset about the picnic.”

“Oh.” Crowley flopped back down. “No. It's just – last time I saw a basket like that, there was an antichrist in it.” When Aziraphale stared, Crowley continued. “Didn't I tell you about that detail? Yeah. Yeah, that's how I delivered him. To the nuns, I mean.” He stretched, wriggled in a very snake like manner, and found a new sunning position that was not that much different from the old one. “Didn't mean to keep that detail from you. I sorta forget what I've said and what I haven't.”

“You aren't required to tell me things,” Aziraphale reassured him.

“I try to. I don't want to....” Crowley fell silent despite the fact that they both knew there was more to that sentence.

“You don't want to what?” Aziraphale finally prompted him.

“Trick you.” Crowley found a spot on the blanket fascinating. After a moment, he elaborated. “I want you to … choose me, but only if you do it with your eyes open, knowing, y'know, all the bad bits.”

A memory of Crowley, perched on a chair in the shop, lecturing him about how  _ Romeo and Juliet _ was not a love story slid out from among the many others. Except it wasn't really about  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , was it? “Well,” Aziraphale reached out to pat his hand, “I feel quite confident that after six thousand years, I know all the awful bits about you and I still choose you. I will every time.”

Crowley's hand slipped around so he could lace their fingers together. “I choose you, too.” He gave a sleepy little yawn and did another sunning – snake wriggle – return to nearly identical position move. “Angel? I like picnics. Let's do more of these.”

Aziraphale gave his hand a squeeze. “As many as you want.”


End file.
